


Ruin

by Desdemona



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdemona/pseuds/Desdemona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the point of regret in a world like this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> This story's original title was Sweat and I don't understand how it gained some kind of weight at the end, I really don't. Which is where the summary snippet is from and let it be noted that this story just got way more serious than I meant it to be, wow. Also, I've developed this thing against names that's showing up more and more. I dunno. Pardon errors, I wanted this up today. I'll be re-reading it quite a few times so I'll catch it all at some point. Happy reading!

 

 

 

It happens once.

His hands fumble, slide on her skin, turned slick with sweat. She's yanked her pants off and they hang off her leg, dragging against the floor. Her mouth is at his ear, “Can't be your first time.”

And he grunts, sucking in hot, humid air drenched in the smell of her. “You got a hint or two, I'll take 'em.”

So she takes his hands and curves them around her ass. “Hold on,” as she sinks onto him, bites the hell out of her lip as her body gives way for him. He holds dead still when he wants to twist and push up, push in to heady, wet tightness.

His body isn't his anymore. It chafes at him a little.

If it wasn't for how she looks, breasts free, throat damp and inviting, he'd protest it. There's an itch that wants him to take over if only to end the torture. Then she's full of him and those sweet breasts are heaving as she sucks in air.

“You good?,” she whispers, eyes glazed and heated. She rocks on him and he braces his feet harder against the floor, settles himself in the chair better, gritting his teeth the whole way.

“Yeah.” He does a little experimental shift up himself, feels her flex around him, and her soft, panting swear makes him wanna smile. “I'm good.”

 

* * *

 

It happens twice.

In the dead of night when it's not their turn to guard, she's got her legs wrapped around his head, her pants still hanging around her ankles, while he learns what she likes. He braces a hand against the bunk's frame, the other one hooked around her thigh while he tries a lick here and a gentle bite there. She has her hand wrapped tight around her mouth and the other curled around his head.

She likes when he presses deep in, fills his mouth with wet and slick until he doesn't know if it's spit or her. She likes it more when he finds her clit and closes his lips gingerly around it. She makes little noises when he gives a cautious, curious suckle.

Her muffled sob puts a raw ache in his gut when he sucks harder. Her thigh flexes in his grip, her boots scraping against his vest, the noise rough and loud in the silence. Her hand presses tighter against his hair, fingers twining in the strands. Gripping tight.

The insistent pressure says as much as she does without words.

 _More_.

 

* * *

 

It happens three times.

She's glued to his back as they ride back from a run, their spoils strapped securely to the bike. The sun is high in a cloudless sky, the air muggy and heavy. He whips them through a tangle of cars, edging around a small gaggle of walkers that hiss as they pass. The prison is still only a pinprick in the distance beyond the trees when her hand sneaks beneath his clothes to flatten against his belly.

He sucks in a breath, instinctively slowing down. She leans tighter against him.

“Keep going.” She thumbs the button free, eases his fly down.

“Gonna get us killed,” he hears himself say distantly as her hand clears underwear. Still, he eases back up to speed, not quite as fast as before but the trees are greenish blurs at the corner of his eyes again.

She works her fingers into the tangle of hair waiting and presses her nails against the skin beneath. “Pay attention.” Her words are almost too faint to hear but her intent is clear as day.

They ride like that until he can't take it anymore, until his thighs feel like the muscles are pulled too tight. His vision is going white at the edges from anticipation. She's a warm weight wrapped around him and her nails dig teasing half moons into his groin.

They hit a clearing and he slows down quick, looking around as best he can before he kicks down the stand. She swings off the bike in one fluid motion and they both stop moving long enough to see if anything is nearby. When nothing tramples through the grass or breaks the treeline, he lowers the crossbow in time to see her turn on her heel and come back to him. She edges into his space and he spreads his legs, leaning back against the bike.

His pulse spikes when she works him free. Stepping between his open legs, she wraps strong, weapon-roughened fingers around him and tugs. Sweet pleasure blinds him, nearly knocks him out before things have even gotten interesting.

Worse when she licks her lips. Drags her thumb along the underside and makes his knees buckle. Still, it's nothing to prepare him for when she actually slides to her knees, like she's been planning on this all along. Her mouth is twice as hot as the sun as she sinks down on him yet again, in a whole new way and blowing his mind all the same.

He drops his head back as she licks him lazily. Tightens his legs when she presses her thumbs into his hips and swallows him until he bumps the back of her throat. Her throat constricts, trapping him in a prison all her own.

It's a fight not to thrust. As it is, he gives into tiny twists that she welcomes with approving moans smeared against his skin. She backs up for air and her lips are so swollen already.

“You good?” he manages, reaching to touch her mouth instinctively. He checks himself a few inches away.

She leans forward, just enough, and he presses his fingers against her lips, finds them hot and so delicate. She glances up at him then takes him down again, until her nose is buried in his groin and he's seeing stars in the middle of the day.

He doesn't realized he's mimicked her until she slides away, eons later and still too soon, to whisper hoarsely, “Yeah, I'm good.”

 

* * *

 

There is a fourth that becomes a first.

They run into a pack of walkers and a few survivors that are too desperate to think about anything except for the food a small group might have. It's her and him and one another and they kill every walker and one of the survivors before they can get away.

They haven't had to defend themselves against anything human since the Governor and he finds himself sitting in his cell later, staring at dried blood on his hands. Someone else is dead 'cause of them.

It's not supposed to bother him anymore. It's protect your own these days and they'd done it, he'd done it. He doesn't for one moment regret shooting the arrow that knocked the light out of someone's eyes.

But it'll haunt him, all the same.

She wanders by later, coming in on cat-silent feet to sit beside him. She looks at his hands, dirty from so many things and meets his gaze.

“Ain't suppose to deal with that,” he says so hollowly that it startles him. “Not anymore.”

“You're not dumb enough to think that,” she counters and he really looks at her. There is nothing marring the placid expression on her face, no ripples beneath the glass but that's just her face, he knows that.

Her gaze is pretty direct. She doesn't blame him and he's sure that if he hadn't done it, she would have. She's like his brother when it comes to things like that. Do it, don't regret it.

What's the point of regret in a world like this?

He starts to lean before he's really thought it through, just blindly reaching really, and she hesitates before meeting him. Her mouth, which has said the harshest things and taunted and snarled and tormented, is almost fragile against his.

After everything, her kiss breaks his heart. Her hands curl into his vest even as she pulls away. He tilts her chin up so he can kiss her again and sip at that sweetness. Maybe take it into himself and hold onto it so the world couldn't chip at it.

He can live with his ghosts but that doesn't mean it has to be an unbearable suffering. He pulls away this time and finds that somehow along the way, she's moved into his lap and her hand is clasped around his neck, the fingers of her other hand framing his cheek with startling gentleness.

He waits to feel nervous about her being close. No barrier of sex to hide behind, for either one of them. He waits for his throat to squeeze and his words to melt into a puddle of nonsense.

He waits for the panic....and then realize she's just as still.

On a whim carried by a purpose, he takes hold of her wrist and presses his thumb against the pulse. It's running at breakneck speed and his own heart catches the rhythm, runs with her, scared with her.

She curls her fingers into a fist. He opens his fingers so she doesn't have to pull free.

She's got ghosts too.

There's understanding when their mouths meet one more time or he tries to be understanding and it feels like she's trying too. When they pull free, she curls across his chest carefully. He wraps his arms around her and looks up at the bunk above him as she settles.

Comfort for comfort.

“You good?” she says quietly, her fingers spreading over his heart.

He closes his eyes, places a hand over hers. “Yeah. I'm good.”

 

 

 


End file.
